


Feel worthy for a while

by dot_the_writer



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Muggle, Alternate Universe - Non-Magical, Drinking to Cope, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-09
Updated: 2018-09-09
Packaged: 2019-07-10 08:15:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,793
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15945365
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dot_the_writer/pseuds/dot_the_writer
Summary: Harry might hate his roommate, but when Malfoy starts coming home drunk every night (and trying to climb into Harry's bed), he decides it's time to investigate.





	Feel worthy for a while

**Author's Note:**

> I've recently fallen in love with muggle AUs, so here is my little addition to the theme.

“Malfoy. For the love of all that is good and pure, can you please get out of the goddamn bathtub?” Harry was exhausted, annoyed and so done with uni.

“Nope,” Malfoy said, taking extra care to pop the “p” before hiccupping and clutching his half-full Solo cup closer to his chest.

His eyes were rimmed with red and his clothes rumpled. That wouldn’t have been unusual on someone else, but Malfoy was such a swot — he went to parties in pressed button-downs, never a hair out of place.

If Harry didn’t know Malfoy better — know how put together he always was and how he hated to show emotion, he would think he’d been crying.

Slowly, Harry sat on the edge of the tub. He hadn’t even wanted to come to this party; he had football practise early in the morning, but his best friend Ron had heard from his sister Ginny that her boyfriend Dean had overheard Ron’s crush Hermione tell her friend Neville that she was planning to stop by Hannah’s party.

It was madness, really.

And Harry was mad for supporting it.

Even if he had to be at this stupid party, he would much rather be downstairs, hanging out with his friends, than dealing with an extremely drunk Malfoy sitting in Hannah Abbott’s bathtub. It’s not like they were even friends; no, the fates had conspired and stuck them together in the dorms for the second year in a row. He had tried to talk with the resident director, but she just gave him a slow smile and shook her head. “The pairings are final, Mr Potter. I’m afraid you and Mr Malfoy will have to learn to get along.”

So far, it wasn’t working.

Ginny was actually the one who told Harry that Malfoy was upstairs; while she and Malfoy had never gotten along, she seemed worried when she came to find Harry.

“Please, will you come back to our dorm so we can go to bed? I’ll let you take your drink on the way,” Harry pleaded.

Malfoy swayed forwards, just for a moment, before leaning back against the porcelain. “Together?” It looked like it took an immense amount of concentration to get the word out with minimal slurring.

“Yeah, Malfoy, we’re walking home together.”

“No, Potter,” he shook his head slowly and tried to sneer. “You don’t understand.”

Sighing, Harry looked down his roommate. He was sloshed, and reeked of alcohol, but Harry couldn’t help but notice how beautiful he was. His pale hair was more mussed than Harry had ever seen it, but it provided a soft frame to his face, a contrast to the harsh angles of his cheekbones and jaw.

They had almost kissed, once, at the end of last year. But Malfoy had pulled away at the last moment, and neither had talked about it in the morning. It was easier to blame the alcohol than actually admit feelings, Harry had found.

Abruptly, Malfoy tried to stand, only succeeding in falling into Harry and spilling his drink onto both of them.

“Okay, okay,” Harry grunted, lifting Malfoy. For someone so tall and lithe, he sure was heavy. “C’mon, I got you.”

He half-carried Malfoy down the stairs and through the kitchen to the back door. He made eye contact with Ron as he passed, who grimaced but offered no help. He had two drinks in his hands, and Harry only hoped Ron’s night was going much better than his own.

Somehow, he managed to get Malfoy — who was still clutching his now-empty cup, through the neighbourhoods and back onto campus. Malfoy was being no help; his hands kept slipping under Harry’s jumper, and his breath was hot against Harry’s neck.

“C’mon, Malfoy, we need to get you undressed and into bed.”

Malfoy stumbled when Harry released him, and half fell onto his bed, propping himself up by the elbows. “You’re going to undress me, Potter?”

A light blush rose across his cheeks. “Malfoy. I don’t have time for this — I don’t think you want to sleep in jeans, right?”

Malfoy kept eye contact with Harry as he shimmied out of his jeans, revealing black pants and long, pale legs.

“Bloody hell,” Harry muttered, under his breath. It’s not that he hadn’t seen Malfoy in his pants before — they did share a room, after all — but it was usually more compulsory than, well, seductive.

He helped Malfoy take his jeans the rest of the way off, from where they had been caught around his ankles, and finally got him to set the cup aside before pulling the blankets over him and turning out the lights.

He climbed into his own bed, his flannel sheets wrapping around him. There was a crash on the other side of the room and a slurred curse before Harry felt the weight of another person fall on top of him.

With Malfoy pressing down against him, Harry was left with no choice but to look into those grey eyes. “Do you not want me?” Malfoy whispered. He looked upset, his brow was furrowed and Harry wanted nothing more than to smooth the lines.

But he couldn’t answer. Wouldn’t answer, not like this.

“Hey, c’mon, just sleep, okay?” He allowed Malfoy to climb under the covers, allowed him to wrap around Harry like a cuddly octopus.

But once Malfoy’s breathing slowed and steadied, Harry gently untangled himself and climbed into the other bed. He only had a few hours before practise, and he needed to use them to sleep, not to question his entire existence with a drunk and apparently randy Malfoy half on top of him.

Even then, he couldn’t get Malfoy out of his mind. He dreamed of pale skin and aborted kisses, and before he knew it, light was streaming through the curtains.

He made sure Malfoy had a glass of water and some ibuprofen on the nightstand next to him before grabbing his equipment and leaving the room. It would be great if there was some magic hangover remedy, but alas, they were stuck chugging water and pills and chasing the combination down with a strong cup of coffee.

 

* * *

 

Carrying his football kit and a muddy ball, Harry returned to his dorm in the late morning, only to find it empty. The glass on his nightstand was drained and the pills were missing, but so was Malfoy.

He wasn’t worried, not really — Malfoy was an adult who could take care of himself, but Harry couldn’t help but think of the last time he drank this much. It was last year, around the same time; he came back to their dorm every night for a week drunk and stumbling, words slurring as he cursed the world.

Malfoy had disappeared for two weeks after that, then was returned, sober, by one of his few close friends.

Harry hadn’t asked, and Malfoy hadn’t shared the details.

After that though, after watching Malfoy make poor decision after poor decision, Harry had made sure to get his friend’s number. Just in case, he thought at the time.

_11:39 a.m.: hey, blaise — t_ _his is malfoy’s roommate, harry_

_11:39 a.m.: do you know where he is? he was… uh, a bit out of sorts last night_

He didn’t have to wait long for the telltale buzz indicating a response.

**11:41 a.m.: He’s with me. Don’t worry about it.**

Harry knew Blaise was rolling his eyes.

_11:42 a.m.: thx_

_11:45 a.m.: just tell him I’m worried about him, ok?_

**11:47 a.m.: God, no. Tell him yourself —**   **you’ve lived together for a year and a half, you must have each other’s numbers by now.**

**11:52 a.m.: He’ll be fine, I promise. Don’t worry your pretty little head.**

Harry debated texting Malfoy, but decided against it. They weren’t friends; it was better that he was with Blaise instead of awkwardly hanging out with Harry.

Even with that decision made, the day passed slowly. It was the strange time of year between winter and spring, where it was lovely out but not yet warm, and Harry didn’t want to go out in the cold. Still, he didn’t want to be cooped up inside all day. Ron wasn’t answering his texts, which meant he was either hungover or was still with Hermione. Harry suspected the former and hoped, for Ron’s sake, for the latter.

Harry spent the time cleaning the dorm room — really, his side of the room. He had a chair designated for half-clean clothes, and it took about half an hour to smell each item and either throw it in the laundry or fold it and put it away. Even after two years, Malfoy couldn’t even look at The Chair without an expression of disdain. He was such a snob, only when drunk did Harry ever see him leave a mess.

After quickly growing bored of that, Harry made his way down to the cafeteria for lunch, choosing a small table in the corner and telling himself that no, he wasn’t looking for a head of pale, blond hair.

While he was busy not looking, he did find Pansy Parkinson, Malfoy’s closest friend. Where he was tall, she was short, where he was sharp angles, she was sharp with words. Her tongue could cut better than any knife, but more often than not, she used her weapon to tell off those who deserved it. Harry was terrified of her, but really, she was all right.

So lost in his own thoughts, he failed to notice Parkinson approach — only seeing her as she sat at his table.

“I’d hide in a corner too, if my hair looked like that,” she said, vaguely gesturing with a perfectly manicured hand to Harry’s mop of black hair.

He had inherited it from his dad, one of many things that had been passed along genetically. Based on the few photographs Harry had of his father, knobby knees and a need for glasses apparently also made the list.

He ran a hand through his hair, only making it stand more on end, and scowled at Parkinson.

“I wasn’t hiding.”

“Love, you’re sitting in the darkest corner by yourself, ducking your head every time someone tries to make eye contact with you. If that’s not hiding, I’m not sure what is.”

His scowl deepend, and she grinned in response.

“So who are we hiding from?” She said, scanning the cafeteria.

“No one,” he said petulantly.

“Hmm, were we looking for someone instead?”

Harry answered no, cursing his inability to tell a convincing lie as Parkinson just smirked at him.

“I have it on good authority he’s safe.”

Harry didn’t bother to clarify who she meant. “I just worry — I know he talks to you and Blaise, but he hates me.” Harry looked down on the table. “I can’t help him if he doesn’t let me in.”

“He hasn’t hated you in a long time, darling. But Draco’s tough; he doesn’t let people in when he’s worried they’re not going to stay.”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

“Haven’t you talked about going to the continent after graduation?”

Harry shook his head. “But that’s not for a few more months —”

“I’ve known him since he was five, and he still had a hard time talking to me when… When everything happened. He’s going to have a rough couple weeks, and he just needs a friend.”

“What’s going on?”

She fixed him with a hard stare. “Don’t pry. Let him come to you when he’s ready. If he’s ready.” Her gaze softened for a moment. “It’s not my story to tell — I am sorry about that.”

“Thanks, Parkinson.”

She wrinkled her nose. “Pansy, love. I’ve known you for long enough.”

She stood, sleek black bob swinging slightly as she walked away. Harry stayed at the table, more confused than he was before.

 

* * *

 

Throughout the following week, Malfoy’s side of the room remained empty more often than it was occupied. Starting the night of the party, Harry barely saw his roommate. Malfoy would return at odd hours — often stumbling in at two or three in the morning and gone before Harry woke. They shared one class, and Malfoy missed two of the three that week.

Harry left lecture notes for him on his bed, he knew Malfoy had been home those days only because the pile of papers had been straightened and moved to Malfoy’s desk.

It all came to a head though when Malfoy got back to the dorm at three in the morning, sloshed and sobbing, and climbed into Harry’s bed.

“Shh, Malfoy — Draco, it’s okay, I’m here. Are you hurt?”

Malfoy stammered out a “no,” then buried his head into the crook of Harry’s neck, and Harry took the opportunity to run his fingers through the blond strands. Shoulders heaving and breath catching, Malfoy leaned into Harry’s touch like a starved man.

It seemed to take forever for him to calm, for his breathing to even and slow, and for him to fall asleep.

Careful to not wake him, Harry grabbed his phone and texted Blaise.

_3:52 a.m.: malfoy’s here, he’s safe. everything ok?_

**3:55 a.m.: Thank fuck. Keep him there, please — Lord knows he needs to sleep.**

_3:56 a.m.: you’re not going to tell me what’s going on, are you?_

**3:57 a.m.: Not my place, but I do apologize for that.**

**3:57 a.m.: Thanks, Harry. Pansy and I do appreciate it.**

He fell into a fitful sleep, arms wrapped around Draco as they slumbered. Every time Draco moved, Harry woke. In his half-awake state, it was hard to know if he was waking to see if Draco had gone, or to stop him from leaving.

Whichever it was, the second was successful. Harry’s phone vibrated at ten, waking him for the final time, and Draco was still there, head buried in the crook of Harry’s neck and one leg thrown over Harry’s own.

It was time to talk.

Harry carefully extricated himself from the sheets and from his guest, in order to make a pot of coffee, some medicine for the hangover Draco would surely be suffering from and a glass of water — just as he had prepared after Hannah’s party.

It would be a lie to say Harry didn’t find a bit of joy in waking Draco up — watching him stretch out on the bed, muscles and toned chest on display as the blanket slipped. He scrunched his nose up as he yawned, altogether reminding Harry a bit of a kitten, with a much fouler mouth.

“What the fuck time is it — and why the hell am I in your bed again?”

“Just past ten. As for your second question,” Harry shrugged. “You climbed in when you got home, so you’ll have to answer that for yourself.”

Draco froze momentarily, before scrambling out and into his own bed, looking almost guilty.

“Look,” Harry said, as he shoved the cups and medicine into Draco’s waiting hands. “You need to talk to me, about whatever the fuck is going on.”

“Nothing’s going on,” Draco countered, tossing back the pills with a sip of coffee.

“You’ve barely been here this week! And when you are, you’re either drunk or hungover. Fuck, Draco, I’m worried about you!” Harry’s chest was heaving; he hadn’t realized how worried he really was until he had the chance to confront Draco.

“It’s just a rough time of the year,” Draco said, his voice uncharacteristically quiet.

“Why? Stress from school? You’re top of the class. Relationship stress?”

Draco snorted.

“Family? You don’t talk about your parents much.”

He stood, violently, upsetting the precariously balanced cups on his bed. Harry knew he had struck a nerve.

“Don’t talk about my parents, Potter.”

“Just let me in! Damnit, Draco, I know we aren’t friends, but I live with you. I do care about you.”

Draco left out a humourless laugh. “You’re too busy with your squad of gingers and football players to care about me.”

“That’s not true,” Harry whispered.

“You didn’t take an interest in me until the end of last year, when we both got home drunk and almost kissed. You didn’t care before that, and until now, you didn’t care after.”

“I didn’t know you even remembered that.”

Red spots appeared on Draco’s cheeks as his blush spread. “You’re hard to forget.”

“And that’s also not true — I cared before that and I’ve continued to care. You just make it so damn hard.”

Draco raised an eyebrow, a look Harry could never pull off.

“I know you take tea with three sugars and coffee black. I know you’re top of the class only because you work your arse off for it, but I also know that you really care about learning. I know you keep a notebook of sketches hidden in the bottom of your desk, and I know you love curry from the place down the street when you’re feeling homesick, because your mother used to make it for you.”

Harry took a step closer, as they both stood between the beds.

“Draco, I know you. I care about you.”

Draco reached out a hand, slowly, and Harry grabbed on like it was a lifeline that could pull them both to shore.

“I know you too, Potter. You run your fingers through your hair when it’s messy, you have copies of the same one photo of your parents stashed in four different places. Even though you could go pro, you don’t want a career in football because you don’t think it’s meaningful enough. You have a stuffed dog named Padfoot hidden under you pillow that you cuddle with when you have nightmares, and you’re a horrible Brit because you don’t drink tea, basically ever. And you love the curry from the place down the street too, the spicier the better, but you only go there to avoid Hermione when she wants you to study.”

“Is this a competition?”

Draco shrugged. “I don’t let people in because I’m scared they’ll leave. I don’t like people knowing things about me.”

“I’m not good at taking care of people emotionally, because I never had to growing up. I’m not good at knowing what people are feeling unless they tell me.”

“I’m scared you’ll leave.”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

Draco shrugged, but pulled Harry a step closer.

“I really did want to kiss you that night, but you pulled away and I didn’t want to push you.”

“I only pulled away because,” Draco took a deep breath. “I pulled away because I knew it meant something to me, and I wasn’t sure it would to you.”

It was Harry’s turn to shrug. “It would have then, but it would mean even more now.”

“Are you trying to ask me to kiss you, Harry?”

Instead of answering, Harry took another step forwards, effectively closing the gap between them.

From them, he wasn’t sure who moved first, but suddenly, there was the gentle pressure of Draco’s lips against his own. It stayed soft and slow, the perfect first kiss. Small movements, small breaths, and when Draco pulled back, he didn’t move far.

Harry still felt Draco’s chest moving against his as they breathed.

“Tell me what’s wrong, okay? I’m not going anywhere,” Harry repeated.

Draco leaned into Harry’s embrace, avoiding his eyes. “My father died around this time last year,” he said, his voice small. “He was abusive, and controlling. I… I never had the strength to confront him, and now I’ll never have the opportunity.”

He looked at Harry. “I had so much shit, bottled up, that I wanted to tell him — but now he’s gone and I’m mad that I’m not going to have the chance to tell him that he was wrong. Wrong about me, about my worth.” Draco’s breathing became heavy, his grey eyes flashing with anger, with pain. “That makes me a horrible person, I know.”

“No, Draco, that doesn’t. You’re allowed to have complicated feelings about your father — he abused you, but he still raised you.” Harry tried to control his own emotions, tried not to focus on the abuse he had suffered growing up.

This was about Draco.

“He loved me; I know that. But he was an alcoholic, and he would become violent when he drank,” Draco said. “He never really hit me, but I still get panic attacks whenever someone starts to yell at me, and I can’t drink the fancy whisky he used to love without breaking down.”

Harry nodded, pulling Draco down on the bed next to him, both sitting with their backs against the wall.

“He can’t hurt you anymore.”

“I know,” he said. “I do, but at the same time, he still can. There’s a million things that will forever be associated with him. So much of my behaviour is influenced by the way I was treated.”

“I get it.” Draco scoffed, and Harry continued. “My aunt and uncle abused me after my parents died in a car crash. I lived in a cupboard under the stairs and was basically their slave, cooking and cleaning for them. I hate small spaces. I hate asking for help because I’m afraid I’ll get hit.”

Draco’s hand found Harry’s and squeezed.

“So no, I don’t know what it’s like to have someone both love you and abuse you — the Dursleys never cared about me, but I do know what it’s like to have abuse define some of your habits.”

“At times, I just don’t know how to stop it from defining all of me.”

Harry sighed. “You work on it. Constantly. Every day you work to be better than your abuser, to be a better version of yourself. It can be easy to fall into that pattern of abuse, to lash out at people, but you need to do better.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t let you in.”

Harry turned to face Draco. “I’m here for you, okay? I understand why you didn’t tell me, but you don’t have to go through this alone.”

“I had Pansy and Blaise, and my mother to an extent.”

“And now you have me, okay?”

“Okay.”

They sat together, each lost in their own thoughts and each struggling with their own demons. A knock at the door drew them out of their pensive states.

Harry stood and answered.

“Come on, darlings,” Pansy said. “I won’t let you waste a perfectly good day sitting in the dorms when there are better things out there.”

Harry turned to Draco, who was still sitting on the bed. “What do you say? Ready to face the world?”

Draco stood and reached for Harry’s hand, and together, they made their way.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading, and come find me on [Tumblr](all-drarry-to-me.tumblr.com)!


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